


Corporal Punishment

by x_los



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: BDSM, Corporal Punishment, Dom!Blake, Light BDSM, M/M, Season/Series 01, Spanking, Sub!Avon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 06:57:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5575696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_los/pseuds/x_los
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Avon is guilty of three counts of major sacrilege. The symbolic chastisement can be administered either by the planetary security force or by his commanding officer. Luckily, neither he nor Blake think spanking is at all sexual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Corporal Punishment

**Author's Note:**

> beta'd by Aralias, first reader Elviaprose.

Blake buried his face in his hands and proceeded to talk through them. "So, you’re willing to forgive my colleague's—"

“—incredible rudeness and blasphemy," the Governor's aide reminded him helpfully.

"Right," Blake said.

"Three counts of major sacrilege, to be specific."

"Yes, thank you," Blake said dryly, looking up. "So you'll forgive all of—that—"

"And the impudence," the aide stressed. "The frankly _breathtaking—_ "

"And the rudeness," Blake said quickly, "and release him, provided he's punished appropriately. And that would consist of—what, exactly?"

"Well," the aide sighed, "it used to be _lashes_ , but these days we use more symbolic chastisement as a substitute. It's a matter of shaming the culprit for their misdeeds—though we rarely have to, this isn't _that_ common of a crime. Tools optional, no breaking of the skin necessary—twenty strikes and we'll consider the debt of honor paid?"

"All right," Blake said guardedly. "I'll explain the situation to him."

The aide nodded. "Either our security people can administer the penance, or you can. You're his commanding officer—his discipline is, ultimately, your affair."

***

" _Well?_ " Avon demanded when Blake was admitted into his cell. 

Avon had his arms crossed over his chest, and in general looked irate and entirely without shame: like someone who had _not_ managed, within the space of a day, to annoy well-disposed total strangers to the point that they'd put him in prison. Then again Avon had looked fairly unembarrassed to be on the London as well, and (unlike some) he _had_ earned his berth. Blake supposed he shouldn't be surprised. 

He did _like_ Avon, but it was hard to remember that at times, and hell if he ever knew what combination of insecurities and prerogatives and antipathies caused Avon to lash out wildly, at times even against his own interests. Avon was impossible to understand and could turn hostile and vicious in the blink of an eye. At times he reminded Blake of his hardest engineering courses, given human form. _Yes,_ they’d been valuable and had expanded his mind and he’d come to rely totally on them in his work, but _god_ he’d had to work to ace Advanced Mechanical.

"I'm not going to ask what exactly you did to make yourself unpopular, because frankly Avon, I don't care. And I'm not going to lecture you on the wages of making a complete arse of yourself, because I don't think it'd help."

"Good," Avon said with a sneer. "That would be tedious. Well, Blake? What's my sentence?"

Blake tossed him a teleport bracelet. Avon caught it. 

Avon arched an eyebrow. "That bad?”

"Bad enough," Blake said curtly, rolling back his sleeve to call the Liberator.

Avon toyed with the bracelet, not putting it on. “Incarceration aside, I was under the impression these people were civilized. And that you needed the information their spy networks could provide you with quite keenly. And that they were not unwilling to share it. The enemy of their enemy being their friend, and all that."

“Yes,” Blake said. “Thank you for reminding me of exactly what I’m losing. Helpful as ever, Avon.” Blake rapped his fingers over the call button, impatient. 

Avon arrested him with a pointed glare. "You're in a particularly unforthcoming mood."

Blake rolled his eyes. "It's almost as though I don't like you much at the moment."

Avon narrowed his eyes. "What did they say? Specifically. Not capital punishment, I assume." 

"No. They said, specifically, that you could endure a beating, at my hands or at their security personnel's, and be forgiven. A relatively mild beating, truth be told. Twenty blows, freehand, like an old-fashioned school punishment. You’re right, I did want that information—and your need to be the cleverest person in the conversation at every _single_ moment has lost me my chance of getting it. I hope whatever satisfaction you derive from _pointlessly_ intellectually dominating everyone was worth it. But I'm not about to get in the habit of exposing my people to unnecessary injury, and I'm not _about_ to give you this to hold over me, and you're too valuable to alienate over this, and I'm not _bloody_ asking you to go through with it, all right? So let's go, Avon, and I'll think twice about trusting you to behave like an adult in future."

Blake's chest heaved, and Avon regarded him silently. His arms had tightened around his chest. 

"Twenty," he said.

" _Yes_ ," Blake answered. 

"Freehand."

Blake made an irritable gesture. "Like I said."

"All right, I'll do it," Avon said.

"What."

Avon shrugged, his face quite still. "Embarrassing, certainly, but there's no real risk associated, and I imagine I'll survive the indignity."

Blake blinked at him. "Avon—you don't have to do this."

Avon was suddenly properly angry. "Do you want that information or not?" he half-snarled. "It is, as you say, my fault they're no longer willing to treat with you. And while I would point out that their extreme sensitivity is at least equally responsible for the misunderstanding, however they represented the situation to you, I'm willing to admit that I—might have exacerbated matters. So we'll rectify it. It's easy enough."

Blake bristled. "I am _not_ going to employ corporal punishment—"

"Stop being sentimental. My discomfort is a comparatively minor concern, and what happens to me is, as ever, up to _me_ and not to you, Blake."

"Well, _this_ comes as a surprise," Blake said mulishly. "A minor concern, Avon? I’m hard-pressed to think of anything more important to you than the preservation of your dignity and your own hide."

Avon's anger seemed to drain into something different but difficult to define. He swallowed, and when he answered his voice was devoid of tone. "Perhaps you're right. Nevertheless."

Blake sat down on the cell's bench and slumped into a hunch. He breathed out a long sigh. "That's unfair. I didn't mean that."

"Is it?" Avon asked, his voice still hollow.

"Yes," Blake said solidly. "Would you rather—?" Blake hesitated a moment, then pushed on. "Would you rather me, or—someone else?" Both had their obvious disadvantages.

"Not—someone else," Avon said, not looking at him.

"All right," Blake said. After a moment. "I'll go and tell them. Avon—"

"If you _thank_ me, I'll insist on teleporting up this instant," Avon said sharply, and Blake laughed despite himself. 

*** 

Outside the strangely sparse room used to carry out the sentence (which boasted a high, soft, padded bench that looked like sanitized-after-each-use gymnastics equipment), a secretary from Corrections fiddled with her data pad, attending to some other work. She knew what blows sounded like, and she'd tell her superiors if she didn't hear twenty good ones, but beyond that she didn't care what they did. 

Avon was angry and awkward, and Blake wished he was still angry—Avon had drained it out of him, with his unexpected and insistent burst of altruism. With his bearing up, which Blake had noticed he did often, casually and well, without making much of it. 

Without irritation to rely on, Blake just felt a little ridiculous and a lot uncomfortable about doing this to anyone, let alone someone he would have to keep working with after all this was over. Let alone _Avon_.

Avon laid himself over the bench with an eye roll.

"Well?" Avon snapped. "Get on with it."

Blake tried a tentative smack on—there was no getting around it—Avon's arse through his thick cloth trousers. His own parents had never gone in for this sort of thing—long, patient explanations of how what you had done had hurt people had been more their style. He’d really only read about corporal punishment in historical books, and was peripherally aware of it as a reasonably common kink. And like most historical and sexual specificities, removed from its context and associations it was bizarre, nonsensical and wildly inappropriate. This was about as awkward as having, for some hitherto unanticipated cultural reason, to suck Avon’s toes (Blake had never gotten that one either). Avon didn’t normally _hug_ , let alone invite Blake to touch him in a manner that could be considered sexual. Avon was attractive, and more than that he was interesting and could be delightful to be around, when he felt like it—that was why they were friends, when Avon allowed that liberty—but Avon was too removed and inscrutable to think of in terms of any form of sexual possibility, and the proposed session of violence wasn’t making Blake reconsider that.

"Skin to skin, I'm afraid," the secretary called through the mercifully closed door. "And you'll have to do it significantly harder, for me to be able to count it as one of your twenty."

" _Brilliant,_ " Avon muttered. He stood up, peeled off his clothing—all of it, so as not to look ridiculous, like a half-dressed child being chastised—and resumed his position. It was like being back on the London, with its communal showers—they’d had to well and truly abandon preciousness about nudity in those close quarters. Avon’s rigid expression testified to an utter refusal to be embarrassed. 

Blake chose not to say anything, because his speaking might jar that. He raised his hand and brought it down with a decisive smack that made Avon start.

"Too light," the secretary called through the door, evidently bored by the proceedings. “Hard as you can, please. The sooner you do this properly, the sooner we can all go home.”

Blake rolled his eyes, raised his hand, and brought it down again, significantly harder this time. Avon didn't make a noise, but that same long shudder seemed to ripple through him. 

_Too sensitive,_ Blake thought with a second's fleeting pity. 

He himself took pain easily. Avon _was_ brave, but being brave must be more difficult for him, given that he was this affected by pain: given that he had enough imagination to torment himself with the knowledge of what it would be like to suffer the various dangers he regularly narrowly avoided. Even now he was tense, gearing up for the next blow. 

Without thinking about it, Blake squeezed Avon’s shoulder and ran a hand over his back, offering a nonverbal consolation Avon could accept without conversationally engaging with what Blake was doing. Avon relaxed slightly under the touch. Blake exhaled. It was going to be fine. They could do this, easily. 

"One," Blake muttered, and Avon breathed and nodded, ready. 

Blake smacked him again, wishing his hands weren't quite so large and heavy. Avon breathed a little louder but otherwise grit his teeth and tried not to move.

"It might be easier if you let yourself respond," Blake said (quietly, so as not to be overheard by the girl outside), his hand still resting where it had fallen. "If you tense up, you'll only make it worse for yourself."

"You might have a point," Avon admitted at the same volume, and Blake said, “Two” more distinctly and lifted his hand again. 

Another blow. It was interesting, from a mechanical standpoint, how the flesh went warm under his hand. Some capillaries had burst—Avon bruised easily. Blake felt himself blushing slightly as he noticed that while the whole area was blood-flushed, a red rising against white skin, there was also now a distinct, large handprint on Avon's right arse-cheek. His handprint. 

"Three," he murmured.

The fourth, and Avon made a noise—the slightest exhalation of breath as a heavy blow struck the already sensitive, bruised skin. 

Contrite, Blake smoothed his fingertips lightly over the damage his hand had done, as though the source of injury were the cure. He had to distribute the blows, that would hurt less. Blake turned his attention to the other cheek, skating his hand over to it. He suspected that landing a blow between them, on both cheeks at once, wouldn't hurt as much, but the impact would also sound less fleshy, and so there was a danger the secretary wouldn't count it. Then he'd have hurt Avon to no purpose.

His own hand was starting to tingle, to sting slightly, and it felt good to rest it on the smoothness of Avon's skin, on the still-cool, unmarked cheek. Surely his own skin couldn't be this smooth? His fingers nearly slid off the rounded surface, and he resisted the temptation to dig them in and grip. Again, just from a mechanical standpoint, Avon was very pleasant to touch. Blake never got to do it, normally, and he knew himself to be a very physical person, who craved touch for connection, to demonstrate affection or to facilitate understanding. All reasons he’d have thought it appropriate and beneficial to touch Avon. But Avon had a thick personal bubble, and so Blake usually contented himself with standing near the man, with leaning in to speak to him. He hadn’t expected Avon would be quite so _particularly_ pleasant to touch, but then there _was_ an odd sensuality about Avon, wasn’t there? Though it seemed a private, personal thing—as though Avon were entirely self-sufficient, and needn’t depend on anyone for his happiness in any respect. 

He raised his hand again, and Avon curled his fingers around the edge of the bench when Blake let it fall with a heavy, resounding _thwack_. 

"All right?" Blake asked.

"Of course I am," Avon said without rancor. 

"Well. I'm sorry about this, anyway." Blake winced himself at the lame inadequacy of the remark. 

Avon laughed slightly. "Why? I caused the problem, in part. Or at least I allowed things to get out of hand, and then refused to apologize. You were right, I was ‘swaggering and obstreperous’, as my school reports used to put it. And there wasn't a great deal of point. It's not as if I care what these people think of me."

Blake—didn't know how to say that he almost always thought Avon was the cleverest person in the room, that Avon had nothing to _prove_. If Avon didn't know that, just telling him as much wouldn't help. But why _didn't_ Avon know that? 

"I'd say thank you for going through with it, but I'm afraid you'd try and teleport back up like you threatened. Only now you’re naked, and I'm not sure Gan's sensibilities could take it." 

Avon laughed.

"Less chatting, more chastising, if you please," the secretary outside said.

"I'm beginning to dislike her," Avon said sotto voce.

" _Beginning?_ " Blake said under his breath. 

Two more strikes had Avon's left arse cheek a matching shade of red. On the last of these, the seventh blow, Avon made a strange, quick little noise—indicative of pain, bundled away. _It's all right,_ Blake wanted to say, but didn't, because the situation was embarrassing Avon more than enough as it was without Blake adding his unwanted pity to the mix. 

On the next blow, Avon shivered, twitched. A little, authentic cry escaped his lips, and suddenly Blake felt twanged like the string of an instrument. An electric, coursing pulse of arousal made itself unmistakably known to him. Something about the noise of Avon gasping, and Avon’s closeness, his nakedness and the heat of him under Blake's hand tangled up in Blake's brain. It made him think about how it would feel to dip slick fingers between the red cheeks and slide them into Avon; about whether Avon would wriggle and make that hitched, small sound at that too; about whether he'd make it if Blake shoved his cock into him; about how that warm, soft skin, decorated with his handprints, would feel crushed up against his thighs and pelvis. It was suddenly difficult to mistake the fact that he'd been luxuriating in the tactile sensations of Avon's body, of _doing_ this to Avon, of having this obvious, visible effect on him. Blake’s hand stung now, and it felt fantastic. 

Fantastically inappropriate, as well. Blake swallowed and passed his hand back to the right cheek ( _not_ dipping down to find Avon's entrance, but accidentally scraping Avon’s bruised flesh with a slightly sharp nail, provoking a shiver) and applied it a punishingly hard blow without meaning to—taking out his annoyance with himself on Avon.

The noise Avon made this time was much breathier—'ah!'.

Blake knew a lot of people enjoyed this sort of thing. It was a common enough kink, and hardly extreme. But he'd never given it a second thought, and barely even a first. It disturbed him that he was enjoying hurting Avon—and that _was_ a definite element in his pleasure. He felt some murky, unattractive satisfaction at punishing Avon, putting him in his place. Even the way his hand ached (it would hurt for a while, and he liked the idea of that, especially because it meant that Avon would feel the effects of this, feel _him_ , for hours) felt _so good_.

But even as Blake felt a touch of revulsion and discomfort, he also thought, This is only as good as it is because I'm doing it to Avon. Being careful with him, and firm with him. It would be even better if he were spread across my lap, if I were touching him properly while I did this. This would be bloody amazing if he _wanted to be here and if I weren't sexualizing this without his knowledge or consent._

That train of thought didn't kill Blake's arousal (he wished), but it stayed his hand, which hovered above Avon's body. 

"Blake?" Avon asked, voice slightly uneven.

They had to see this through. They had to get this done. He could put aside everything he was feeling, disassociate, _finish_ this. Avon didn't want to go through it with some stranger and Blake didn't want anyone else touching Avon. 

He gave a tenth, stinging blow without warning. Avon hadn't expected it, and the noise he made was plaintive. Blake wanted to clutch him and say, _It's all right, I have you,_ and to stroke the flesh he'd wounded, and to gather Avon to him—and oh, he wanted to do it again and again, until Avon was shaking and mewling and maybe crying for him, and he'd hate not to be touching Avon with his own hands, but Blake knew he could hit harder and go longer with a paddle, he could do this better for Avon. Hadn't he been offered one? 

Fuck. _Fuck._ He _couldn't_ disassociate. He was very hard, for a start, and the violence and intensity of what he was thinking shocked him. 

This, then, was all it had taken. Ten hits and Blake knew it wasn't just that he liked Avon, despite and in part because of his stupid, unnecessary desire to prove himself. He was infatuated with Avon, at _least_ ; sufficiently infatuated that a sexual practice he found in and of itself a bit ridiculous was suddenly yielding him one of the most erotic experiences of his life. Because it was Avon, and his relationship with Avon was intense, and unlike any other relationship in his life. Avon always made him want things he'd never thought to care about before. Made him want not just to accomplish his goals and be right, but to be the kind of leader Avon could trust absolutely. That was a lot of additional pressure: Avon held him to high standards, sometimes without seeming to realize how much he was asking of Blake, or even that he was asking anything. But Blake thought it was worth it, thought he was better for it.

And the trust he wanted to earn from and engender in Avon was incompatible with what he was doing and thinking right now. 

Blake swallowed. He lowered his hand to his side. "I'm afraid you'll have to finish with someone else. I can't do this." 

He pitched his voice low again, to avoid being overheard.

"Someone _else_?" Avon said, the response incredulous and angry and immediate, but pitched just as low as Blake's. He took a panting breath and calmed himself slightly. "What's wrong, Blake?” he asked, his tone more neutral. “Is it—Do you associate this with your interrogations?" 

"No," Blake said flatly. That wasn't precisely it, though he did indeed feel a bit like one of his torturers, given that Avon was hardly a masochistic volunteer. How kind of Avon, to think of that—to assume _that_ was the problem. It painted Blake in such a martyr's light. 

"Well, then _what_?" Avon snarled. He hadn't moved, not even to turn to face Blake. "I am not letting a stranger touch me. We're half done."

Blake saw that he would have to explain, which he emphatically did not want to do. But he owed Avon some account of himself, some sort of choice in the matter. 

"Avon—I didn't have any idea this would happen. I've never—" Blake breathed, pressed on, "––gone in for anything like this before. But I'm enjoying this. A lot. We can continue if you'd still rather have _that_ than a corrections' officer. I'm willing to try and be—" Blake cut himself off. Tried again. “But you should know, and make your decision based on that knowledge. I'm sorry, I know I'm making a bad situation worse. You certainly didn't ask for this."

Avon turned his head to look at Blake, and it was his eyes that held Blake's attention. Huge and dark. Blake was so glad he hadn't been able to see them earlier, because now _he_ took a sharp, audible breath, looking into them. It was disgusting, that he found Avon's reaction to pain frankly beautiful. He’d never noticed any element of appreciation in his response to Avon's more ordinary injuries—at least he could normally count on adrenaline and situational distractions to make him respond compassionately and sanely. Or perhaps it was only quite specific, eroticized circumstances that rendered Avon’s pain intoxicating.

"Enjoying it—how?" Avon murmured, answering his own question by flicking his eyes down to Blake's erection. Avon inhaled sharply, and his mouth dropped slightly open. Blake shut his eyes against the sight of him. 

"Whereas I thought I would be safe," Avon said slowly, "because the situation is humiliating, and I've always found the idea of this sort of thing rather repulsive. But it seems I love doing _this_ for you, too."

Avon turned over properly, sitting up, and Blake could see Avon was hard. _Very_ hard. 

" _I_ should have said," Avon murmured. "You were more decent about the matter. But I didn't think I could bear telling you, and the thought of anyone else taking your place was so—" He swallowed.

He looked so vulnerable in that moment. Vast, dark eyes in a pale face. Strong enough to volunteer for this, strong enough to go through with it, strong enough to admit desire and perhaps more to Blake—but he also looked like he didn’t want to be alone. 

Blake took a risk and stepped closer, next to Avon, offering. When Avon hesitantly leaned his head against him, Blake wrapped himself around Avon, crushing Avon to him, burying his face in Avon's hair. 

"Of _course_ you didn't want that. I felt the same, just the same—No one else––" 

"Everything all right in there?" the secretary asked from the hall, and Blake pulled back to look into Avon's face. Tentatively, he slid the sore, sensitive hand he'd used to smack Avon beneath Avon's chin. Avon's Adam's apple bobbed, and he looked up at Blake, and nodded.

"Everything's fine. Just giving him a break at the half way point," Blake told the secretary, still looking at Avon. "I'll start back up now."

Shooting Blake an almost challenging look, Avon turned again and slid up on to his hands and knees. Blake swallowed. He ran a hand down the length of Avon’s back, squeezed the globes of Avon's arse hard, digging his fingers in—Avon squirmed. Blake raised his hand, let a moment of suspense hang, and then dropped his hand harder than he had yet. 

"Mmph!" Avon said into a bit lip, but then his mouth popped open and he looked over his shoulder at Blake with a glazed lust and mouthed _More_. 

Blake shuddered. He’d been right. Doing this when he knew Avon wanted it was even better.

"So what else do you love doing for me?" Blake murmured, moving to speak into Avon's ear, idly running his hand over Avon’s arse. Avon was so sensitive now that even _that_ light touch made him thrash. 

Avon glared at Blake, then violently turned his head away.

"Everything," he spat, voice still too low to be heard outside the room, the near-whisper somehow making his words sound more intense. "My self-preservation goes to hell around you—if I'm not pushing you out of danger and thus throwing myself into it, I'm doing something idiotic to try and get you what you need, to live up to your expectations, to _impress_ you. If you told me to bring back a cowry shell from a swallow's nest, I'd probably break my neck trying to climb the tree. I'd die for you with a smile on my face, and I _hate_ it." Avon's face was flushed like the skin Blake had hit, and Blake felt Avon's words digging into his heart like his own fingers had dug into Avon's muscles. 

"I'll have to be careful with you then, won't I?" 

Blake had always assumed Avon was calculating his own risks—his apparent power over Avon was an immense responsibility. Well. This was Avon asking more of him—Avon asking him to be a better version of himself. And there was only one answer Blake could ever give to that. Just as Avon was unable to say no to him where it mattered, when he knew Blake needed it and was right, Blake found it almost impossible to deny anything to Avon under the same conditions.

"I don't want to be coddled," Avon snapped.

"No," Blake agreed. "Never that. It'd be a waste—you're at your most appealing when you're doing the impossible. When you're giving me your best. But you're my responsibility—that's why they let me administer your correction. I'll have to keep you in line. May I?"

Without waiting for a response, he took Avon's cock in his left hand and gripped it firmly, keeping it where it was while he smacked Avon's arse with his right. Avon's hips jerked at the contact and jerked at the blow, and the twelfth strike garnered Avon's first moan.

"You look like you're fucking yourself in my hand, Avon," Blake muttered. "I'd like it if you laid across my lap, but then I couldn't touch you like this." He leaned to nuzzle Avon's ear, digging his nails into Avon’s arse to earn an echo of his moan. "Next time." 

The thirteenth blow, coinciding perfectly with Blake starting to stroke Avon’s cock, took Avon by surprise. Blake would call _that_ one a whimper. 

" _Bastard_ ," Avon gasped, seeming to mean it affectionately. "I thought you were—A minute ago you were—"

"That's not very contrite," Blake tsked. "Yes, I was rather upset, wasn’t I? _That_ was before this became a consensual, mutual exercise. I've nothing against sexual experimentation, provided that's all in order. You’ll find I'm adaptable. I suspect you are, too. For example, I think I can get you to come for me, like this. Do you?"

"Not a chance in— _Fuck!_ " The fourteenth stroke was delivered differently, and it stung more. 

"You're not contrite, and you don't think you can come for me like this." Blake shook his head. "Six of the best still to go. Tell me you're sorry, Avon."

"I'm sorry," Avon gritted out, before outright shrieking as Blake hit him harder than ever.

"Sincerely," Blake added sweetly, pumping Avon's cock indolently, then hard, acquiring a quick, jerking rhythm. 

"I'm sorry!" Avon said again, sounding almost panicked even as he was trying to push himself greedily into Blake's left hand. 

The sixteenth blow had Avon moaning loudly and repeating, "Sorry, I'm sorry, I was stupid, I didn’t want them thinking I was weak, I didn't want to fail you, I didn't mean to––"

"You aren't weak," Blake hissed, emphasizing the point with hard pressure on Avon's cock. "You're _never_ stupid, you're brave and resourceful and you're bearing up so well for me, you're taking this beautifully, you're so _good_ for me." (Avon had been good for him in a lot of ways—Blake thought he should say as much when they were through.)

Avon made a soft cry at that without even being hit, and Blake, charged with an interesting suspicion, crooned, punctuating every word with a stroke of Avon's cock, “My good, _good_ boy,” smacking Avon’s arse at the end of it. 

Avon disintegrated, babbling “Fuck fuck fuck fuck” quietly, shoulders trembling, slipping from his hands to his elbows, then to half lying down, arse in the air. 

"Kiss me," he managed, "I need you to kiss me, I need—"

Blake sat down on the bench and dragged Avon up to his mouth, gripping his shoulders. He kissed Avon hungrily, and Avon responded frantically, but weakly, as though he'd already been fucked to pieces. Blake tucked Avon against him, then released Avon's shoulders to grip Avon's cock once more—this time in his right hand. His left was fresh, and he could reach the little paddle they'd left on the table next to the bench. He tore off its sterile wrapping with his teeth, and smacked Avon with it, feeling Avon's whole body shudder against him, Avon's mouth move against his neck. 

"Two more," Blake said. "You're going to come for me then, aren't you?" 

Avon tilted his head to look up at him. "Yes."

" _Good_ boy," Blake said, letting his voice rumble, and Avon shuddered and clutched Blake hard, fingers digging into Blake's torso, unaware or not caring that he was clinging, hurting. Blake loved it. Loved having Avon naked in his lap while he was fully clothed. "God, I wish I could fuck you after," he admitted. But they didn't have lube, and Avon would _certainly_ be sore, and sensitive, after coming. "Feel how hard I am—you've made such a mess of me, Avon. I'll just have to get myself off looking at you—come on your stomach, or get it all over your face, smear it on those gorgeous lips—" 

Another slap of the paddle, and Avon jerked against him, twisting his head from side to side. "Fuck me after," Avon got out, " _right_ after, I'll want it, I need it, let me make it good for you—"

"Shh," Blake soothed, twirling the paddle in his hand. Letting Avon watch it, feeling like God for (despite what Avon regularly implied about his hubris) the first time in his life. "Don't think about anything but this." He brought the paddle down without impact and softly pressed it into Avon, drawing it over him in a lazy circle, letting it be a promise. "About the last blow. About coming for me. Hard, and prettily, and," lightening quick, Blake lifted the paddle and slammed it down, actually managing to split the skin, even as he squeezed Avon's cock with authority, " _mine_ ," Blake whispered through a grin as Avon, mouth open and soundless, head thrown back, came elaborately onto his own stomach and Blake’s hand. 

"That's your lot," the secretary called. "There's sterile towels for you to use to wipe off the bench, and some healing cream—it's safe to use even if you've broken the skin. Take whatever time you need to sort the room. You can see yourselves out."

Frozen, Blake and Avon listened to her walk down the hall.

"So that's—" Blake began.

"––safe lubricant and something to clean up with afterwards," Avon agreed. "Come on."

"But you're hurt," Blake protested—weakly, because he'd never been so hard, or heard such lovely words from such a lovely mouth.

"And loving it," Avon growled, finding the cream and handing it to Blake, rolling off Blake and over onto his stomach, spreading his legs. Blake moved to sit behind him.

"You're very coherent all of a sudden," Blake observed, stripping to match Avon with haste and spreading the restorative cream over Avon's cheeks, making them slick, making Avon hiss.

"It won't last—I think it's an adrenaline response. I expect it will desert me as soon as I get—" Avon gasped as Blake slid a slick finger into him.

"––what you need?" Blake suggested, adding a second finger. "You're taking this well. You can't be in practice—I'd know if you got around."

Avon was suspiciously silent.

"Don't make me spank you again," Blake purred. 

"I use something," Avon volunteered grudgingly, breathing harder as the discomfort of Blake's handling his sensitive body and the brushes against his prostate agitated him. 

"Oh?" Blake asked, adding a third finger. "Do tell."

Avon hesitated, then did as he was told, canting onto Blake's fingers like he liked the way they hurt him. "I think about you, I always tell myself it's you, and I fuck myself—” He squeezed himself around Blake’s fingers. “I have to do it all the time, just to—"

Blake lost a little of his grip on reality at that. He needed to be in Avon like he needed air. He slicked his cock and pushed into Avon, tight and willing and warm, whimpering with pain and too-much pleasure and _his_. 

What coherence Avon had abandoned him, as promised. Blake slid over Avon, abetted by the oil–it felt like he was trying to push himself deeper and harder and further into Avon, drawing back only to accomplish that, rather than like he was fucking. It was bliss, and he told Avon so, and though Avon couldn't come again so quickly he seemed to love Blake's coming like he had his own. When Blake said, “Fuck, Avon, sweetheart, that's _so_ good, you’re so— ” and bit into Avon's shoulder hard as he came without knowing what he was doing, Avon's cry had a note of wild triumph in it.

Blake had never seen the appeal of something like fisting before—of erotic possessiveness, of erotic violence. But Avon made him feel that here was something worth possessing and protecting, made him want to work harder and do more for Avon, to Avon. Sex with other people had been physically and emotionally good, but simple things had been _enough_. He hadn’t _yearned_ for excess, needed it to match his feeling. And whatever Avon wanted to do to _him_ , he welcomed—he trusted Avon with his body as he trusted Avon with his work, which he did not love, but which he valued more than his own life. Avon might be jealous of that, but he valued Avon’s life above his own as well. He pulled Avon up into another kiss. He slid his fingers into Avon's body again to feel Avon flutter around him, and pressed Avon’s prostate to hurt him just a little more, because Avon liked it and because he _loved_ Avon. 

"Did you learn your lesson?" Blake asked as Avon pushed himself hard down on Blake's fingers for a final grind. He was still dripping with Blake’s come, which Blake apparently now found equal parts erotic and liable to provoke extreme tenderness, rather than just a matter-of-fact side effect, perhaps a little gross. Blake was no longer even surprised by the reshaping and expansion of his preferences. That said, he didn't think he'd find vanilla sex with Avon any less interesting. Vanilla was, after all, a subtle and compelling flavor. 

" _Oh_ yes," Avon said, encircling Blake's neck with his arms. Blake had read about this, actually—you were supposed to cuddle afterwards. Fine by him. Beyond that, he didn't know what subspace was, outside of astrophysics, but he assumed he could look it up later. 

"Excellent. I—" Blake began, with a strange, unaccustomed shyness, clearing his throat, "––teach a whole _course_ , actually, if you're interested…"

Avon laughed outright.


End file.
